Vanilla Suicide
by Juliet DeMarcus
Summary: Will the events of "Entropy" lead to a tragedy of near-Shakespearean proportions? Crossover with A:ts post-"Double or Nothing." Warning: Possible character death in future (haven't decided completely on the ending yet). Please help me out, R&R!
1. Means to an End

Title: Vanilla Suicide   
Author: Juliet DeMarcus   
Rating: R   
Spoilers: Buffy up to and including "Entropy." Angel up to and including "Double or Nothing."   
Summary: Will the events of "Entropy" lead to a tragedy of near-Shakespearean proportions?   
Disclaimer: "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" and "Angel" are not mine. (But I can dream, right?) I'm not making any money, so don't sue me.   
  
  
  
  
  
I had to give myself credit. It wasn't often my poncy musings did anything other than disgust me when I was unfortunate enough to read over them. But this time, as I looked down at the words, still freshly written on the page, I didn't feel disgust...I felt... inspiration.   
  
I felt a kind of liberation as the idea seized me and for the first time since I'd first set foot in this town...no, for the first time in...God only knows how long, I felt that painful motion of the phantom heart-beat that's forever within me still. I knew peace.   
  
It was an odd sensation. For the first time I really thought about it, and realized, I'd almost never known peace.   
  
Only when I was a child did I ever know it at all, and even then it was fleeting. The fleeting innocence of a young boy's youth.   
  
But this wouldn't be fleeting.   
  
Maybe it was because I was drunk. As drunk as a vampire can get, I suppose. The poetry had just come.   
  
I usually fought the instinct to write. Especially since the chip and, subsequently, Buffy... Before that, I didn't mind it so much. Couldn't bloody tell what the words meant if you read any of my earlier stuff, from my vampire days that is. Sure, you could tell it was about murder and mayhem, but beyond that, the meanings were illusive, known only to me. And maybe Dru,...she always did know me too well for my own good anyway.   
  
But back then, mostly, I wrote about death. About causing it. About the fascination of it. About the blood that ran like the finest wine, about snapping necks, about terrorizing continents. Hey, what do you want from me? I was a master vampire! A slayer of slayers! I knew my place in the world...and I enjoyed it.   
  
I'd like to say that's all the poetry I've kept over the years. Those from my days as part of the infamous "scourge of Europe," from my days with Dru...but unfortunately, this is not the case. I'd also kept all the writings from my days as that poof William, as well. Though I could never quite suss out why. I never looked at them. Bloody hell, I'd most likely vomit up my breakfast, lunch and dinner if I had. Ridiculous William, with the spectacles, the unruly mop of light brown hair, and the broken heart.   
  
Forever the broken heart...   
  
That's something people must be sodding born with. Cause it's always been with me. No matter how bloody hard I tried to be worthy of something more, I always ended up with the same thing...an empty, broken heart.   
  
Sometimes,...I wonder if I've ever been loved by a single person that's known me.   
  
Oh bloody hell! Tears again, William? ... you stupid git! Haven't you learned that tears do nothing!? No one cares if you cry. Cry like a bleedin' baby...isn't that what father always said? 'William always cries like a bleedin' baby'... 'he needs to grow up' ... I never grew up, you pillock! Or he didn't. William. Ponce.   
It's always William! William that turned me soft when Buffy was sitting there on the steps of her back porch. William who asked "Is there anything I can do?," when he should've just blown her bloody head off! Be done with it then. The bint was right when she said I was in love with pain. Might be the only sodding thing she was ever right about when it came to me, but she had that one damn straight!   
  
Well, buggar off William! ... Better run bloody fast too 'cause you're gonna get yours this time. I'm finally going to be rid of you and your pain and your tears! Your incessant bloody awful poetry. God, how I've hated you! I've hated you for so long... I wonder why I haven't thought of this before...   
  
The hands always know before the mind. At least, that's how it's always been in my case. I could see that now as I looked down at the paper I held. As I saw that I knew the solution even before I'd realized it. Just like I loved her before I realized it. It was all just a means to an end...   
  
  
TBC... 


	2. What is Lost

Title: Vanilla Suicide  
Author: Juliet DeMarcus  
Rating: R  
Spoilers: Buffy up to and including "Entropy." Angel up to and including "Double or Nothing."  
Summary: Will the events of "Entropy" lead to a tragedy of near-Shakespearean proportions?   
Disclaimer: "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" and "Angel" are not mine. (But I can dream, right?) I'm not making any money, so don't sue me.  
  
  
Thursday - Dusk   
  
  
"Angel?," Cordy stuck her head tentatively into Connor's room...or what *was* Connor's room...   
  
It was going to take her awhile to get used to that.   
  
Connor was gone.   
  
The words repeated themselves over and over as she took in the all too familiar sight of Angel just standing in that room, looking around helplessly.   
  
Connor, the sweet little baby boy they had all grown to love so much, so quickly -- the miracle child of two vampires, was lost forever. Sent to a hell dimension that could never be opened from this side again.   
  
A hell dimension that he probably didn't survive even one day in... 'At least, he's not suffering...," Cordy tried miserably to comfort herself. 'Not suffering like the rest of us... Like Angel...' Her heart cried at the sight of him, at the light that had died in his eyes. Connor had been so good for him. Angel had a purpose, he had a life...he had a future. Now what did he have?   
  
'Us. That's what he has!,' her thoughts took on a distinctly Cordelia-like determination as she marched over to where Angel stood, silent, having never even turned to look at her when she called for him. 'And we are going to bring him out of this. He's been through horrible things before, and he came out of it without anyone really... Now he has all of us... We're his family and we'll bring him back!'   
  
"Angel?," she tried again gently, coming up beside him. He still did not look over at her.   
  
"Yeah?" His voice sounded flat. Dead.   
  
"We have a case."   
  
He turned to her at that, his eyes impassively studying the mixture of concern and hopefulness which displayed itself in her features.   
  
Cordelia attempted no more than a small smile in return. There was no reason to pretend. She was well aware that he knew she was worried, that she was desperate to get him out of that room -- even if it were just for a little while. No use in hiding it. They'd been through too much together for that.   
  
His looking at her was a pleasant surprise. She had fully expected him to either tell her that the others could deal with it or just say nothing.   
  
"Great. What do we have?"   
  
Cordelia was lost for a moment. Staring at his face -- the subtle changes she saw there and the feelings they created in her. Muted for a moment by the pain that so clearly shone through his eyes.   
  
He was so transparent. It worried her sometimes. That one day one of his enemies would use against him that pain they could read so easily. And they would destroy him, completely. He was already destroyed, in many ways. He'd been through so much, just within the space of one year. She wondered if he'd ever be the same again, as she felt an irresistible urge within her growing stronger, second by second... She felt... She wanted... She felt her arm begin to move slowly, her hand ready to reach out and touch his face... 'His beautiful face...' She froze. 'What?...What am I...,' but her self examination was put on hold as she realized he was staring at her, curiously, waiting. 'Oh right, the case!' She gratefully came back to the full awareness that she had started out with. That they had a case, a rather urgent one in fact, to talk about.   
  
She immediately shook off the...whatever it was, and got back to business while that was still an option. She didn't want to lose him again. Go back to that point where he didn't even answer them for hours.   
  
"Well, do you remember all those demons that Doyle died for?"   
  
Angel blinked. That was an unexpected shock to the system. Cordelia had this unceremonious, abrupt way of putting things that sometimes left him breathless.   
  
  
This time was no exception.  
  
Doyle... The pain seemed fresh again in light of Angel's most recent loss. So much loss. He lost everyone. Always lost... And eventually, even those he still had by his side now would be lost. One by one...or maybe all together in some horrible tragedy. Gunn, Lorn, Fred...Cordelia. Angel swallowed hard. No, he wasn't going to think about that. He still had not spoken so Cordy had taken it upon herself to continue filling him in with the details.   
  
"Right. Of course you remember...," she looked down a moment. Feeling guilty for both the way she had said it and for having to bring up such a dark matter on an already dark day. Angel studied her reaction, her ackwardness, and wondered if somehow she had sensed his thoughts. "Anyway, one of them contacted us, Lewin... I don't know if you remember him or...," she waited but Angel didn't respond. "Well, anyway, he says that a lot of demons...you know harmless, *good* guys like him and like...Doyle was, and like...I am now I guess," Cordelia stopped a moment, considering, then went on, "are just dropping like flies of some kind of mysterious illness that he thinks is being brought on by some kind of potion."   
  
Angel looked interested. "Do they have any suspects?"   
  
"Can you guess?"   
  
"Not..."   
  
"Nope. Can you believe there's actually one great evil a brewin' that Wolfram and Hart *doesn't* have a hand in!"   
  
"No," Angel stated flatly, looking forward again. That cold distance was beginning to take him over again, she could see it. 'Real bright Cordelia, bring up Wolfram and Hart in a round about way...that should put him in a great state of mind!,' she thought furiously to herself. She rushed back into her explanation, hoping that something in it would snag him back out of the dark quiet that he went into, nearly all the time now.   
  
"Actually, their suspect is some big-wig magic demon guy who is hell bent on wiping out all the demons who actually try to be decent members of society. *And* as a fairly new addition into the demon community, can I just say that I'm very disturbed by this holocaust of all the 'do-gooder demons'?"   
  
"Anything else?," Angel inquired, still looking forward, but obviously still with her too which caused Cordelia to let out a breath she'd been holding. She tried to let it out slowly, hoping he wouldn't notice the evidence of her anxiety. Though no one could have ever known by looking at him, he heard the long, slow exale of relief. And he understood.   
  
"Yeah. Well, they said that he is the last remaining member of some ancient race of demons that went extinct a long time ago."   
  
  
Angel digested this piece of news a moment before responding thoughtfully.   
  
"His name wouldn't happen to be Zaltimarrus?"   
  
"Yeah,...." Cordelia glanced at the paper she was holding, then back up at Angel with confusion. "How'd you know?"   
  
"Heard about him in my days as Angelus. Actually, thought he was a myth. Apparently not the easiest guy to track down."   
  
"Well, they've managed to find him." She handed him the paper. Angel scanned the contents quickly.   
  
"So, they don't need me to find the guy...they need me to..."   
  
"Stop him."   
  
"Kill him." Angel spoke at the same time.   
  
"Yep, you are the champion," Cordelia answered, sounding so chipper in an attempt to reverse the dark mood of the room that she almost grimaced.   
  
"Sounds like fun," Angel replied, still no feeling to be heard in his monotone. With that he started to stalk out, the paper with the address in his hand.   
  
"Angel!," Cordelia called after him. "You'll need back up!"   
  
"Believe me. I can handle it."   
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~   
  
Angel didn't stake out the place. He didn't ask around about the guy. He knew enough from the talk he'd heard in his earlier days that this guy had almost unlimited power when it came to mixing up magic potions and deadly poisons, but if he didn't know you were coming, he wasn't so tough.   
  
'Everyone has a weakness,' Angel thought, visions of Connor filling his mind. He shut his eyes on the mental image of a cooing baby and kicked down the door.   
  
The demon had blue skin with vivid, deep purple eyes that were quite startled at present. He was of a large frame, yet lean. His white hair was almost iridescent and hung low, about to his shoulders. But other than the strange coloring, he looked close to human. Kind of reminded Angel of one of the aliens they'd had on the original Star Trek that he watched re-runs of sometimes.   
  
He had been sitting at a desk, like an all too human business man, going through some papers when Angel had burst in. The oddest touch of inappropriate humanity was in the old fashioned spectacles he wore on his face.   
  
  
"Zaltimarrus, the legendary alchemist-apothecary... It's an honor. I almost feel like I'm meeting the Easter bunny." Zaltimarrus for his part looked confused at Angel's words and began to open his mouth to protest the intrusion and demand to know how Angel had stumbled upon his location when he was slammed back against the wall so forcefully it knocked the wind out of him.   
  
"So, you got any of that potion you've been using on some of my friends here in L.A....cause I think I'd like to see how some of this stuff works first hand." Angel's hand gripped the demon's blue neck and squeezed like a vice as his vampire face slipped on. The same face that had made Connor laugh so...  
  
  
Zaltimarrus choked, trying to get out something...anything to stop this mad vampire from killing him right then and there. "Oh you want to say something? How about telling me who hired you to take out those demons!," he demanded, letting go of the neck only to punch him in the stomach. He felt a rush, a welcome release at the violence. But it wasn't enough. 'What will ever be enough?...'   
  
"What do you care?! You... You're a vampire!," he choked out again in amazement.   
  
  
"And you're a very observant man."  
  
  
Angel could see in his searching eyes that he was genuinely shocked to find that *a vampire* had tracked him down and was taking revenge on him for killing a bunch of useless do-gooder demons.   
  
Angel's rage stemmed from not only the loss of his son but from the idea that this creature had gruesomely killed twenty-five demons that could've been Doyle. That could've been Cordelia... That could have been one more person he loved, lost. Gone forever.  
  
Angel slammed the blue-skinned demon back against the wall again, harder this time.   
  
"Tell me! Do you work for Wolfram and Hart?!"   
  
Zaltimarrus looked stunned. Then laughed dryly.   
  
"No. Though if they made me an offer..." He was slammed into the wall a third time with even more force.   
  
"Then why kill those twenty-five?"   
  
"Why not?," Zaltimarrus answered calmly, tilting his head at Angel. "They give all of us a bad name."   
  
"No one paid you to do this?," Angel asked in disbelief. "I've always heard you could make a potion to any specifications, for any purpose...but only at a price..."   
  
"Your information is correct. Unless it contributes to the cause."   
  
"The cause. So this is all your own little 'mission'?"   
  
Zaltimarrus smiled. "I suppose you could call it that." Some part of Angel fell at the words. He knew it was true. His passion waned a bit, knowing that Wolfram and Hart wasn't responsible. The urge for justice was no so overwhelming. And he hated himself for that. His vampire face fell away to reveal human features once again.   
  
"Have you given the poison to anyone else? Are there any others in my town that you've already infected!?"   
  
"No."   
  
"There was just the twenty-five, then?"   
  
"Yes."   
  
"Have you been contracted by anyone else lately?"   
  
"Why should I tell you?," he asked simply, studying Angel intently all the while.   
  
"Because I happened to have been a legend in my time too... They called me Angelus...ever heard the name?"   
  
"Angelus...," the demon intoned in wonder, obviously impressed.   
  
"You may or may not have heard, I have a soul now, but I remember all I knew back then about how to torture. And believe me when I say I have equal expertise in human torture and demon."   
  
Zaltimarrus seemed taken a back for a moment, more from the fact that Angel had a soul than by the threat.   
"Can I ask you one question first?"   
  
"You can ask."   
  
"Why do you care about the demons? I mean, even with a soul...they might not be evil, but they aren't human? Why defend them?"   
  
"Someone has too. And I had a friend once, who died for the very people you are murdering. I'm not letting his death be in vain."   
  
Zaltimarrus slowly shook his head, seemingly in sympathy and understanding. "You're a sad case," he stated simply, sounding genuinely sorry for the vampire before him.   
"Just tell me if anyone else requested your services recently?!," Angel demanded again. Hating the sound of pity in the demon's voice. He recognized that tone all too well. He didn't want to hear it anymore. All he wanted was to move on, get this over with and know if there might still be someone he could help before it was too late.  
  
  
'Like it's too late for Connor...'   
  
The demon sighed, resigned now in some way to his fate. "You're going to kill me, either way, aren't you?"  
  
Angel now studied the demon, intrigued with how little he seemed to care about his own demise. Angel felt a certain kinship with that. He understood as only another immortal could...the endlessness that made you almost wish that someone would make it all stop. Angel decided that he would show the demon enough respect to be straight forward. Zaltimarrus would probably know he was lying if he denied it anyway.   
  
"Yeah," Angel stated simply, hearing the weariness creep into the sound. "All that is determined by if you answer my question is *how* I kill you."   
  
Zaltimarrus nodded in understanding, yet still with no passion evident one way or another as to how he felt about the proposition of his imminent death. "Doesn't really matter anyway. I haven't done much business since being in L.A. Word's just now getting out to the right communities about how they can contact me."   
  
"How do they contact you?"   
  
"By phone."   
  
"Phone?"  
  
"Yes. Or E-mail. This is the twenty-first century..."  
  
"So who has called since you've been here." "Only one call has come through. Another vampire, like yourself... One of the strangest requests I've ever gotten. And let me tell you, I've gotten some strange ones."   
"What was so strange about it?," Angel asked curious and somewhat concerned as to what another vampire would want with any "strange" potions.  
  
"He wanted a potion that would kill a vampire...in the most agonizingly painful way I could manage. Well, I thought, unusual yes...for a vamp to want to dust one of it's own yet...not unheard of. If there's one thing that I've learned in my line of work, it's that vengeance has it's place in every community."   
  
"Then what's so strange?," Angel asked dryly, wondering if perhaps the poison had been purchased by someone in hopes of using it on him. Somewhat surprised, he found he seemed to have no more passion for the idea of saving his own life Zaltimarrus did.   
  
"Well, I asked him who it was for, I mean who he intended to use it on...That's my policy. I know if something big's going down to get out of the premises so I won't be...well, implicated, and therefore tracked in case the client misses their mark. And this guy tells me it's for *himself*. He's going to drink the potion himself. And the oddest part, he tells me he wants it to taste and smell like vanilla."   
  
Angel's stomach lurched then knotted in the most unexpected way at the words that now hung in the air around him. A feeling of pure dread seized him.   
  
  
"I mean what kind of vampire wants to kill himself, and not only that but requests the most *painful* means possible, and wants the potion to taste like *vanilla*? I mean, you're a vampire...wouldn't blood be the desired taste for one of your kind?"   
  
"What was the vampire's name?," Angel asked slowly, coming out of his shocked trance. But he knew. He already was certain of what the answer would be. 'No one else...'   
  
"Said his name was Spike."   
"He was calling from Sunnydale?," Angel asked on a hunch while his mind was still racing on the word 'Vanilla.' He didn't know how it had come together in his mind so quickly. How he had made the connection between the slayer he had so loved and his vampire childe, but he knew. If he had ever thought of such a connection before this moment he would have likely went to Sunnydale to kill Spike himself.   
  
"Yes," Zaltimarrus answered after a moment of surprise. His eyes narrowed, studying the vampire before him. "You know him?" The blue skinned demon looked as if something clicked inside his mind, suddenly making some form of sense, at the possibility.   
  
Angel didn't answer, just stood there, taking in what he'd just learned.   
  
"How did he pay?," he finally asked, gruffly. He shook the weaker man in his grasp as he spoke for emphasis.   
  
"He didn't pay," Zaltimarrus answered in that same deadly calm, completely unwavered by the threat of being further roughed up by the intrusive vampire. "He didn't offer and I didn't ask."   
Angel's face relayed his confusion.   
  
"Why?"   
  
"Well, I said he was like you, did I not? It's not as if he were *fighting* the forces of good and light in this world. It was more like...he was at war with them...and trying to make peace -- his very essence screamed it. I thought him severely dangerous to the cause, to the core ideals that I've held in such a high esteem throughout my existence."   
  
These words were spoken thoughtfully and disturbed Angel more than he wanted to admit, even to himself. More disturbing however was the fact that Angel was feeling more now than he had since right before Connor had slipped away into the portal, lost forever to him.   
  
"So this contributed to your 'cause'." Angel could not disguise the disgust in his voice...only the disgust was not just for Zaltimarrus, but for himself. Another reaction that caught him off guard...   
  
"Exactly. Now you're catching on," Zaltimarrus sounded truly pleased. "I mean, he was...*disturbing* to me. And I don't find much disturbing. In fact, I thought certain *he* was the vampire with a soul. I mean, I'd heard that there is in this world only one vampire cursed with a soul...and I'm taking it now that vampire is you. That being said...he was even more dangerous than I'd thought."  
  
  
Angel's brow furrowed at this as he considered what had just been said.   
  
"What do you mean? What makes you think he was good just because he wanted to die?" Angel's expression grew darker by the second as his voice grew more desperate and seeking. He didn't want this to be true. 'It can't be true...'  
  
"Oh, it wasn't just because he wanted to die. It was in the way he spoke. There was definite regret, for ... well, I'm not sure what. And he kept making comments about how 'wrong' he was...about how 'he'd gone too far this time' about how he didn't deserve to live and no matter how good he tried to be he'd always be just a soul-less thing, a former murderer. He said something about not regaining what you've lost."   
  
The words struck as a physical blow. Both Angel and the demon who had constructed his childe's doom were quiet a moment, pensive.   
  
"Does he have it?," Angel's voice was grave. "When did he call?"   
  
"Oh, let's see...it was Tuesday night he called in the order... I had it ready the next day and sent it out to him...he would have gotten it earlier today, actually. I guarantee service within 48 hours, you know. Unless there are special circumstances. But with him...I had what I needed on hand, so it was no trouble."   
  
"How? Teleport?," Angel inquired, not really caring, his mind fuzzy with other concerns, other memories of days long passed.   
  
"No. I use UPS. Next Day Air, if need be."   
  
"UPS...," Angel echoed with bewilderment.   
  
  
'William, what have you done now?...'  
  
He still had Zaltimarrus against the wall, a hand at his throat, but for a moment the demon was forgotten. Until he began to speak again, words slow and measured with his contemplation, his eyes locked in the faraway look of remembrance, continuing his earlier thought.  
  
"His voice... it was full of ... pain and self-loathing. Humanity, too. And worst of all, love... So full of love... It was disgusting, really ... interesting, but disgusting," the demon now smiled again. "It's a comfort to know that before I die that I've gotten rid of *him* at least. I never would've thought *a vampire* would be one of my crowning achievements...," he studied Angel's face a moment and his smile became even more hideously broad. "You know, you look like you might be interested in some of that potion too... I could make you up a batch, before you kill me."   
  
He laughed then...a low chuckle that seemed to rise from deep within him.   
  
Which was followed up a few seconds later by the sharp crack of his neck being broken.   
  
Angel stood there, the lifeless body of the once legendary Zaltimarrus at his feet. He was stunned. Not only by the realization of what Spike intended and by the words of the once legendary alchemist-apothecary, but by the feelings the entire encounter had stirred.   
  
A thought surfaced that shocked him, simply because it had never occurred to him in the past, during all those years he had miserably sought out some form of redemption for the countless crimes against humanity he had committed in his time as Angelus... Those who had suffered most at his hands, no doubt would have to be those who were made immortal because of him. That would include Spike.   
  
Yet, he had never made any effort to make things right with Spike or Dru or James for that matter... How could he...they were still evil, soul-less vampires after all? But he found, that explanation gave him, inexplicably, no comfort.   
  
And now, Spike wanted to die. He was full of love and regret and humanity...and he still didn't have a soul... Somehow all the words that the demon had spoken about his childe made perfect sense to him. It ran true, despite how much his mind *wanted* to find a contradiction for it. Another notion struck him then. A thought that went a lot further in explaining all the feelings he had known since the moment Zaltimarrus had told him about the strange vampire with a death wish.  
  
'Connor, my son...is gone. The closest thing I have to a son now...have ever had other than for those all too short months of having Connor...is Spike...William.' Angel remembered William. Vividly and quite against his will, he remembered.   
  
Even when he had been fully turned William's transition had been...difficult. Something that Angelus had found very entertaining and pleasurable at the time.   
  
Spike had of course, later become a pain once he accepted what he was, but until that point... He had been...different. Different from any of the others. Darla even thought so. Dru had been a saint, or fairly close to it and she had transitioned into it more smoothly than he had. That had always been a mystery to him. Mysteries annoyed Angelus, but he did not mind puzzling them out. Angel had pushed all thought of the mysteries of Spike away upon receipt of his soul.   
  
Spike, even once he had became the killer that he was, the slayer of slayers...still he was different. He still maintained this warped sense of humanity. That's why Angelus hated him...that's why Angel hated him too, above any other more justified reason, he realized. Spike was more human in many ways, than he had ever been -- even with the soul.   
  
'The father will kill the son.'   
The prophecy hadn't been true for Connor but it might as well have been for William. Angelus had killed everything that the boy was. The tortured poet. The only one he'd ever known that fought what he had become. Of course, not for long...Angelus hadn't allowed that. The things he had done to him, to William, to Spike.   
  
Spike, the vampire, would never have been in this existence at all had it not been for him. Drusilla had brought him to Angelus after all. She had drained him almost to the point of death ... but his Dru was a good little daddy's girl. She wanted his permission. She wouldn't want daddy cross with her...at least not in the way that would make him ignore her instead of chain her up.   
He had approved her playmate/companion without really thinking about it. He wanted her to have someone to entertain her, to watch after her, he didn't care about anything else. He loved Dru, of course...in his own way. He was obsessed with her. But at times, she got to be a bit much. Spike, as it turned out, had been just what she needed. He took care of her. Someone needed to take care of her, all the time. Even when he was at odds with himself he had done so willingly. And he had been there for her when things got out of control. When she'd had flashbacks to the night her family was killed or when she began ranting and crying about the stars and what they were saying to her.   
  
They both turned him...both Drusilla and himself. But Angelus had been the initiator, being the head of their little family. At least from Dru's point of view.   
  
He had truly been the one to damn William. It was his blood that cursed him with this endlessness... This pain...   
  
Angelus had been the one to torture him too, mentally, physically...in every creative way he could think of, to convert Spike into the demon he had become...William the Bloody, the notorious slayer of slayers, known for torturing his victims with railroad spikes. Oh yes, Angelus had been a dedicated and, in fact, ruthless teacher... Yet, as much progress as he had made, he had not been entirely successful.   
  
Angel started back to his car as quickly as he could, having a horrible sinking feeling in his chest, a feeling that told him these revelations were being made too late. Taking out his cell phone he punched in the number to the Hyperion. Cordelia picked up on the first ring, desperate, as they all had been, for some distraction.   
  
"Angel Investigations! We help the helple-"   
"Cordelia, I'm not going to be back tonight."   
  
"What? Angel, what's wrong?!," Cordy's voice was full of concern for him. But he knew, he didn't have time to explain...she would never understand it anyway. She would just think Connor's loss had driven him completely mad. And he wouldn't blame her. In fact, he was beginning to wonder if that was happening himself.   
  
"Nothing...Don't worry. Just...someone needs my help. And I owe him the favor."   
  
"But Angel, who-" Cordelia heard a click and he was gone.   
  
  
  
To Be Continued... 


	3. More Human than Human

Title: Vanilla Suicide  
Author: Juliet DeMarcus  
Rating: R  
Spoilers: Buffy up to and including "Entropy." Angel up to and including "Double or Nothing."  
Summary: Will the events of "Entropy" lead to a tragedy of near-Shakespearean proportions?   
Disclaimer: "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" and "Angel" are not mine. (But I can dream, right?) I'm not making any money, so don't sue me.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Staring at that paper I focused again on the words...  
  
Two simple words that embodied my humble attempt to capture my slayer as she is to me.  
  
'Vanilla suicide...'  
  
Granted, it's a bit...dramatic. But are we not, either of us, separately or together anything but dramatic?  
  
Dramatically different?  
  
Dramatically similar?  
  
Dramatically tragic?  
  
Dramatically passionate?  
  
Dramatically violent?  
  
Dramatically dark?  
  
Dramatically innocent?  
  
Dramatically, utterly and hopelessly lost?  
  
Oh yes,...all of that, and so much more. How else could I write of her, write of what she is to me? How could it be anything other than dramatic?  
  
'Vanilla Suicide...'  
  
I tried to save myself. I tried to dig her out of my heart. Self-preoccupied bint always seems to suppose I wanted her there!   
  
That *I* would want her there!? Inside me, changing everything I am, causing me to kill in myself all that I have worked so hard to become!   
  
Bringing out all the parts of me, all the parts of that wanker that I bloody well hoped was finally dead.   
  
All those parts that her ex-lover had been so good at killing,...she was even more adept at reviving. Kinda bleedin' ironic if you think about it.  
  
She plucked out all the bloody pain and the emptiness in the darkness,...brought it to the surface and then left me to boil there in it.   
  
And I would bloody *like this*!? Can someone explain this reasoning? I know I'm a vampire, but I'm not *that* perverse! Yet, that's what they all think...that this is some kind of *fun* for me.   
  
Oh right! Being desperately in love with someone who thinks you are nothing more than an 'evil soul-less thing' -- that's just everyone's idea of a frolicking good time! *And they call themselves human!?* Please!  
  
Human -- ha, what a bloody laugh!  
  
I'm more human than human, if that lot is the standard!   
  
And if any one of them were just the slightest bit self-aware they would see it for themselves! But no, they're about as daft as they come... And they won't see it. They don't want to see it.  
  
Just look what that stupid, ungrateful git did to Anya, if you don't believe me. I tell you, I never really saw it coming, that heart-to-heart the demon-girl and I shared. I knew from the start, pretty much what she was up to. Like a true ponce, I decided not to oblige her. William! Bloody hell! Taking pity on the whelp, when I could've wished him dead or tormented for eternity in some hell dimension...or I could've been really cruel... The possibilities were endless! I'll never know what I was thinking. Why I didn't take the opportunity while I had it. Instead, we talked. And I have to say it was...good. Like she said, good to have someone who understood, for once. Never really thought about how much we had in common before. Never thought of truly how much Xander and Buffy had in common until then either.   
  
They don't see that as they 'fight the forces of darkness,' they are so worried they will be affected, or infected maybe, that they are in fact, numbed to the very essences of life that they are supposed to be fighting for.   
  
They don't want to be touched by darkness. It's a singular preoccupation with them. A full time job to keep themselves 'safe' and to be satisfied with their own inflated sense of self-righteousness. They don't see that as time's gone on they have been touched by it. More than touched. They're down right losing their own humanity and they don't even see it!  
  
What is human?   
  
Compassion, for one. How much compassion do Buffy and Xander have? Or, better...how much do they give?  
  
After what Harris had done to her, and then him telling her that she made *him* sick! Just letting lose on her, completely oblivious to the pain *he'd inflicted.*   
  
Such pain, it was... Sitting there, staring into her eyes it had taken me off guard. And as she confided in me, as she confessed to me her worst fears I saw so much of myself in her that I thought it'd kill me.  
  
Our pains fed off each other. Here we were, two 'demons,' the two out of the group who, according to them would know the very *least* about being human... And yet, we were relating with honesty, sharing more understanding and compassion with each other than I'd wager the likes of Buffy or Xander have opened themselves up to in ages.  
  
That's all we were doing really,...even when it went...too far. I had so wanted to reach out to her. I just wanted to wipe it all away...to make it...easier, somehow. I couldn't stand the look in her eyes, when she said those words, when I heard that same despair in them that I felt in my heart each moment, each millisecond of each day.  
  
"What if he's just pretending? ... What if he never wanted me, the way I wanted him?" The sound of the tears in her voice almost broke me.   
  
As I looked at her then, I saw so clearly the strange lopsided irony of it all. That bit about us being more human than human, *that's* the moment when I realized it.  
  
I also realized that...her fear was my reality. I have no doubt that I told her the truth. Xander did want her the way she wanted him... But Buffy ... as much as sometimes I see a glimmer of something I think could mean...   
  
I know the truth. She never wanted me the way I want her.  
  
  
  
  
To Be Continued... 


	4. Goodbye Love

Title: Vanilla Suicide  
Author: Juliet DeMarcus  
Rating: R  
Spoilers: Buffy up to and including "Entropy." Angel up to and including "Double or Nothing."  
Summary: Will the events of "Entropy" lead to a tragedy of near-Shakespearean proportions?   
Disclaimer: "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" and "Angel" are not mine. (But I can dream, right?) I'm not making any money, so don't sue me.  
  
  
  
  
  
Thursday night  
  
  
Xander Harris was a little drunk... As a matter of fact, he was plastered. He had some vague recollection of having been drunk since he left Anya, Buffy and Spike in front of the Magic Box, the day before yesterday. All he'd known since that moment was one big dark cloud of alcohol-induced oblivion. It felt good. Or at least, as good as anything could feel after having seen the woman he loved having sex with the soul-less vampire he hated. Then finding out one of his best friends had *also* been having sex with the same soul-less vampire he hated! 'Who's next!? *Willow!?*'  
  
Xander fumed now, walking through the cemetery. This wasn't Spike's cemetery but Xander knew that the chipped wonder did come here to patrol almost nightly.   
  
He wasn't entirely sure of why he was here... If he would really be able to kill Spike if given a second chance. Would Spike fight back this time? He didn't even know if he had been conscious of coming here. However he did know that at least part of his semi-conscious reasoning had to do with the fact that he wanted to have another run in with a certain bleached blonde *without* Anya and Buffy around to interfere, and also without really appearing to have been seeking out his revenge. At the very least Xander wanted to make the damage Glory inflicted on Spike last year look like a scratch! And at the very best, he wanted to stake him.  
  
Spike hadn't even fought back! That was the part (or one of the parts) that really got him, for some reason. Maybe because he knew that he could've actually killed him had he moved fast enough. Maybe because that meant the vampire didn't even think Anya was worth fighting over. Xander's brain was warped and twisted now and he couldn't reason out anything other than... 'Spike slept with Anya. Spike slept with Buffy. Buffy and Anya saved Spike, a soul-less demon...saved him from me.'   
  
The image of Anya on the Magic Box table with Spike was now burned into his brain, and it was consuming him from the inside out. 'Spike and Anya...' No matter how many times he repeated the thought, no matter how many times he replayed the moment he had first seen them on Willow's laptop monitor...it could never become any less painful, any less shocking, any less *wrong*! And each time it played out in his mind, he became increasingly certain that he needed a more permanent solution to Spike than beating him within an inch of his unlife. He wanted him *gone,* for good.  
  
God, he wished he had killed him! He wished he had moved just a little faster for the kill instead of the hurt. Wished he had just gotten it over with before Buffy had come and pulled him away.   
  
If that...Halfrek, demon friend of Anya's ever showed her face again, *that's* what he'd wish for.  
  
They would've gotten over it. Anya had said herself that 'he was just there.' It's not like she really cared about the guy. Not like she needed to care about a guy before she banged him... And Buffy...with Buffy it had to just be a one time...mistake. Because she came back from heaven and was confused and there was no one else... Buffy always had a thing for vampires after all. But it wasn't like she...loved him or anything.   
  
He hoped that if he didn't happen upon Spike he would find another vamp to dust soon. He had too much built up energy, rage... He wanted to kill something. 'Something' in particular. But at this point he was desperate enough that any undead creature of the night would do until the time of the main event.  
  
  
Xander found himself nearing a familiar area of the cemetery now. He hadn't even realized he was headed toward it. Yet, this didn't really surprise him.  
  
It was a place that many of them went when they were feeling confused or hurt. It was like a natural instinct, something each of them did without thinking. Joyce had, after all, been a mothering figure to each of them. A counselor and the only parent out of the entire scooby clan that knew the nightly supernatural dangers they all faced.   
  
When things were bad, sometimes, he would go there. When he didn't feel like talking to anyone else. He could vent to her, she had always been easy to vent to. He hadn't been the only one to visit Joyce's resting place for some quiet time and talk. He knew Willow had too...and of course, Dawn had, after Buffy was... For her, for all of them during that time...it had been something to help keep them sane.   
  
But now as he neared, finally seeing her grave appearing out of the shadow of the trees, it appeared that someone else had already arrived to talk to Joyce.  
  
He couldn't really tell who it was in the darkness. As he crept closer the outline became clearer in the distance. And it wasn't Willow...it wasn't Dawn either.  
  
Dressed entirely in black, he would've almost blended into the darkness of the cemetery had it not been for that blindingly bleached hair...  
  
*Spike!* A searing hot wave ran through his body. He stopped, shock and fury overtaking him along with an agonizing twisting in his gut.   
  
Xander's entire form became tense, hand immediately going to the stake in his jacket pocket and clutching it with a painfully tight grip. He felt the energy burning in his legs, waiting to be released. He could feel himself about to surge forward, about to attack...like he'd done outside the Magic Box, only *this time* he wouldn't drop the stake and there'd be no Buffy, no Anya, to save Spike from what he deserved.  
  
Yet, for some reason...he couldn't move. Couldn't go forward. At first he thought the blinding rage had paralyzed him somehow. That the sensation had been too much and his body had simply shut down. But then he gave some thought to where he was standing... It didn't seem right for such a violent act to take place over Mrs. Summers' resting place. Joyce had known too much violence in her lifetime...having a slayer and a key as her daughters. It just wouldn't be right for the violence to follow her, even here...   
  
Not to mention the fact, that for some unimaginable reason, Joyce had actually tolerated Spike. Even invited him into her home to have some cocoa or something with her, and talk, on multiple occasions! It was her one flaw that Xander was aware of -- her blindness when it came to him. Her inexplicable acceptance of him, a soul-less vampire.  
  
*But* that didn't mean he couldn't track him. Once he got away from the grave site... *Then* it would be all over. Evil dead would finally get what was coming to him. And it was about time too! It blew Xander's mind to think that they'd let something like Spike live among them as long as they had. But he'd crossed the last line, this time...and no one, not even if Buffy was there with her superhuman strength, could stop him from killing *this* vampire.   
  
  
Xander gained some ground on the unknowing figure. Not wanting to be too far from him, understanding from experience that once he showed himself Spike could quickly evade him, if he so wished. And it seemed apparent from their earlier encounter Spike would run, rather than face him. 'Coward...' Xander's mind was full of the hateful assault of words he wanted to wage against Spike before he dusted him once and for all. But he kept quiet for the moment, very quiet... He heard a noise...a voice, too low for him to make out the words... Spike -- he was talking to Joyce!   
  
'He actually has the nerve to come here and talk to Joyce!'  
  
Xander crept closer. Wanting to be privy to what would soon become the vampire's last words. His eyes narrowed, anger increased by yet another trespass into a place Spike should have never thought to tread -- he didn't belong here. He belonged in the ground,...or on it, as a pile of dust scattering in the wind.   
  
  
Spike was knelt over the grave now. He was reaching out tenderly, running his fingers over her name. Speaking in a soft, low tone that was making Xander grow more dangerously close minute by minute. Finally, Xander halted, holding agonizingly still as he listened.  
  
"...but love, why couldn't you have just stayed around a while longer? You... You have no idea how much everybody needs you. How much I need you. You're the only one of the lot of them who ever...," Xander listened intently to Spike's words, taking in how slurred his voice sounded, how desperate. How...something else... Something Xander pushed away and did not allow himself to acknowledge. "You're the only one I can ever really wonder about...well, you and the bit. It was always like, you looked not at what I was...but who I was. Even after everything I'd done," Spike reflected and shook his head in wonder. "I actually think sometimes,...that you might have loved me. Did you?," the question was not loud, but it was desperate. It was a question that would not have an answer however. "It felt like you did, Joyce...," his voice was wavering, moving from low tones to soft whispers. "But how could you love something like me. Lower yourself to love something like...this? But I wanted to let you know,... I had to let you know I appreciated it, honest to God, it was the most...bloody lovely gesture. You and that hot chocolate...way you put in the little marshmallows for me and everything. And, you listened to me, treated me like... You never seemed to care what I was."   
  
Xander now heard another sound...he blinked a few times, as if he thought he were hallucinating and needed to come out of it. Spike was beginning to sniffle, beginning to cry.  
  
"Why?," he asked, voice raw, a sob escaping with the word. A word that was so filled with agony that Xander caught his breath in spite of himself. Almost as a mechanism of self-defense he gripped the stake a little tighter.   
  
One word that expressed so many questions.  
'Why had Joyce trusted him? Why did he have to get that chip? Why did Joyce have to die? Why did he have to feel like this?'   
  
The one word had also launched a battle in Xander's mind, and the death-grip he now had on the stake was not enough to stop it. It was a war between the rage, the overwhelming need for revenge...and...something that was harder to identify, a complex web of emotions. Confusion, regret...ultimately sadness, and the overwhelming need to understand...  
  
Then came the sound that froze Xander's blood in his veins, taking him back to that moment, when Buffy had died. When they first saw her broken body lying there so still. Almost a year had passed, Buffy was even back now, and still the memory held that unbelievable pain, that shock, that chill. It was the same sound he had heard then, a sound he never thought he'd hear once, let alone twice, from the vampire once known as "William the Bloody." Harsh, broken sobs, that filled the air.  
  
"I said it was the boy but it wasn't!," Spike cried, his tear-filled voice a mixture between rueful and enraged. "Joyce...I buggered it all up! You could never understand how much I've buggered it up! I hurt Buffy! I crossed the line, that even I wouldn't cross. And you may be the only one that knows what I mean by that...but you remember the way I was with Dru...I would never... Never! It's the one thing I have respect for! I went too far, Joyce. God, I went to far! ... I think I'm losing my mind..." He covered his face with his hands, sobbing into them, trying to hide his face from the night. The sight was shocking, even the second time around.  
  
"I've hurt them all. And I'm sorry! Why am I sorry?," he sounded like a heartbroken child asking his mother why people had to die. "I'm a vampire! I'm not supposed to be sorry! I'm not supposed to feel like this! But...I *didn't* want to hurt them. I just wanted to make it stop hurting for *me.* *I just wanted it to stop!* Now I've lost them all for good. I've lost Buffy... I've lost Dawn... And the rest of them...*and I don't even know why I care!* I crossed my own bloody line and I'm going to pay. I - I didn't mean to... I mean, it's not what I sought out... I hate the whelp, but I wouldn't do *that* to him. To Anya... I wanted to help her. I wanted to stop how she felt, cause I... I understood it. And I only made it worse. I've ruined them, Joyce. ... Buffy, Anya -- They should've let the whelp kill me..." the last sentence was quieter. Spike had his arms wrapped around himself, as if he were cold. His eyes were glazed and his face wet from crying and he was still staring at Joyce's headstone but not really focused there. Like he was looking past the engraved name to the lost woman's face. "I wish she had let him kill me. He deserved to have it out with me, I would've."   
  
Xander's grip on the stake loosened.   
  
Spike was quiet a while. Wiping the tears roughly from his face with disgust. His voice was wavering but more stable when he spoke again.  
  
"I'm just a bloody pathetic bastard," he shook his head slightly. "That's what I am, always have been. At least before I had 'the big bad,' now... I'll never know why you showed your kindness to me, love, but... I couldn't leave without saying a proper thank you and apologize...for hurting them. And to say good-bye. You're a class act, Joyce. And I know, that from your perch up there you probably hate me too...but, if anybody could forgive me it's you. So, I had to try... Any case, hate me or not... I... I love you." His voice nearly broke again on the last three words. "You'll never know how much the time we spent together meant to me... It was something...I haven't known in so long... It was everything." He stood up slowly, still staring at the stone before him, not able to take his eyes away from her name.   
  
He reached out again, resting his hand on the top of the stone, stroking the granite surface gently with his thumb. "Good-bye, love."  
  
  
He was moving! Walking slowly away from Joyce's grave. And he said he was leaving!? Isn't that what he said? Goodbye?   
  
Xander's muscles tensed again. But, it wasn't the same. He felt oddly deflated. He knew what he wanted to do, or at least he knew what he had come there to do. But now, it all seemed...empty. It was like feeling Joyce's loss all over again. The blinding hatred was overwhelmed by a sadness. A sadness that seemed to now permeate the very air he breathed. He swallowed hard. Still unable to digest and accept the scene that had played out before him. Not wanting to accept. Not wanting to have witnessed what he had just witnessed. It only made things more ambiguous. He saw things in black and white, clear, easy to call...ambiguousness was not something Xander Harris liked.  
  
He was desperately trying to come to some decision inside his cluttered mind, when he felt the strong arms take hold of him from behind, violently forcing him off his feet and back against them. Two of them... maybe more. He heard their growls of hunger and pleasure. Fast. It had happened so fast. The stake fell from his hand and softly landed on the dewy grass.  
  
He groaned, trying to fight as the cool hand pushed his head to the side effortlessly then savagely bit into the flesh of his neck.  
  
The fangs hurt. He'd never had fangs in his neck before... Funny... He almost laughed at the thought. It was so ironic. All this time, fighting vampires... the Master, Darla, Angelus...*Dracula*! And not to forget, Drusilla and Spike! All that and he'd never even been bitten! And *now* he was going to be taken out by, what was likely to be, a few newly risen vamps while stalking Spike for revenge that he had ended up being too soft to take! God, his life was turning out pathetic! He'd survived so long, so much...even a hell-god last year. *And for what?* To lose his love? To feel the chasm between himself and his best friends grow deeper by the week? To die by the hands...or fangs of a couple of fledgling vamps!  
  
He felt the rage he'd been fighting within himself on and off since he had first stumbled across Spike at Joyce's grave now rise to a fever pitch. He utilized the entire force of his fury to struggle against the cold, solid bodies of his attackers.   
  
He fought hard, not out of a desire to live, but out of pure seething anger...at the injustice of the irony.   
  
'*I can not die like this!*'   
  
But his struggles, no matter how much power he seemed to have behind them, proved fruitless. He felt himself growing weaker, as another set of fangs penetrated the flesh of his wrist.  
  
  
  
  
To Be Continued...  
  
  
A/N: Sorry for the cliff-hanger. I hadn't planned it this way, it just seemed right. :) I should have a couple more chapters up very soon! You won't have to wait long, I promise. Thank you so much to everyone who has reviewed -- your encouragement means more than you know! With the words and enthusiasm of Dawn I say, "I love you guys!" 


	5. Voices

Title: Vanilla Suicide  
Author: Juliet DeMarcus  
Rating: R  
Spoilers: Buffy up to and including "Entropy." Angel up to and including "Double or Nothing."  
Summary: Will the events of "Entropy" lead to a tragedy of near-Shakespearean proportions?   
Disclaimer: "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" and "Angel" are not mine. (But I can dream, right?) I'm not making any money, so don't sue me.  
  
  
  
  
  
Thursday night  
  
  
He stopped dead in his tracks, startled by an unanticipated commotion that came from behind him. Mere feet from where he had just been standing at Joyce's grave, a tussle was now taking place. His mind swirled with the implications. Shame was followed up almost instantaneously by anger.  
  
Spike's immediate urge was to just keep walking -- let whoever had stumbled upon his divulgence die before they went on to tell the tale of stumbling across the sight of William the Bloody crying over the slayer's mum's grave...   
  
But then there were also the vampires to worry about. They could surely sully his name worse than any human that was stupid enough to eavesdrop on the confessions of the undead. Without a doubt, the vamps would be around longer to spread the word. He wondered vaguely why he was still worried about his reputation. He had already signed, sealed and delivered the end of that...   
  
Still,...a good old spot of violence didn't sound too bad after the night he'd had so far. He was sick of crying, sick of hearing himself whine...now, he just wanted to rip into something.   
  
Not to mention that, if the vamps got the word out about what a pathetic waste he had become and ruined his rep now, then the gift he'd sent wouldn't mean as much... He almost laughed at his own thoughts. Wishing he could be there to see the look on Rupert's face when the delivery came. 'Can't believe I actually had the stones to...' No, couldn't let the stupid vamps waste it. It was important. A gesture of...understanding, or...something. Besides, whatever was back there...he was ready to take it's head off, and then some!  
  
All at once he turned and ran back to the sound. He had stood still, trying to decide on a course of action for too long -- the sound was weaker now. No kicking, no struggle. 'Might as well save one more nice, little human morsel before I leave,' he thought. 'Confession and then a good deed...maybe there's a lesser hell where the soul-less things who happened to have died on the 'good' side of the moral divider get to go...,' he dryly humored the idea, almost smiling -- trying to figure out what the lesser hell would be like. 'Like hell...but less. About like being here, most like...'  
  
Coming up on the scene he was struck motionless, with horror. Two vampires bending over the boy, who know lay, only half conscious on the damp earth. Pulled up almost into a sitting position by the one clamped onto his neck, while the other sucked the life-giving liquid from his wrist. The boy was pale, deathly pale, his dark eyes wide and wild in his head.  
  
"Xander!," he cried out, from complete shock more than anything else. So many thoughts flew through his mind at once that he didn't know how to sort them. And he didn't try as he made his move on the vamp who had left Xander's neck for an instant to look up in annoyance at the intruding vampire.  
  
"Hey, get you're own -- this one's ours!," he cried indignantly at Spike just seconds before he was crushed to the ground. Spike staked him before he had a chance to say anything more. The other one stared on -- still holding onto Xander's wrist but no longer drinking. He looked dazed, drunk off the bricklayer's blood. A series of expressions crossed his features now -- confusion, anger, fear and confusion again. Spike felt the need to explain himself, to offer up some excusable reason for taking part in this...*incomprehensible* act, of saving Xander Harris.  
  
"I won't have the git taken out by a couple of upstart fledglings! If he goes, I had bloody well better get to do it myself!," he raged at the remaining vampire.   
  
Still confused and newly filled with terror, the vamp dropped Xander's arm and Spike watched it fall limply to the ground.   
  
Spike gazed a moment, hypnotized by blood seeping from the wound on the wrist. After a moment's hesitation, the remaining vampire used Spike's distraction with the bleeding boy on the ground to allow him a chance to escape into the night. Spike did not follow. He found he could not tear his eyes away from the blood.  
  
Xander's blood...  
  
Spike stared at the familiar figure in shock.   
  
He didn't know why he felt the way he did -- about anything. And every time he allowed himself to accept it, that he was some freak of a vampire born into darkness to be a laughing stock, his feelings changed and he was thrown for yet another loop.   
  
Like now -- on the one hand, he wanted to stand there and gloat, tell the boy he should've never spied on him and make him apologize for the things he'd said about Anya -- tell him about the things she said about him, make him good and sorry for how he treated her that night outside the Magic Box. He wanted to ask him if he ever remembered those days in the summer...all the times 'the soul-less thing' he now so despised had saved him, the times they had played pool together and talked at the Bronze. He wanted to ask if it had all been just a ploy just to keep him around to save all their sorry lives and take care of the bit... As if he wouldn't have volunteered to do that anyway! As if he wouldn't have willingly died for his Nibblet... for any of them! He needed to know...   
  
Needed to know if they had laughed... Laughed at how bloody pathetic he was... How even after Buffy was gone he was their Scooby dog on a leash.   
  
Finally, he wanted to stay there and lap the blood from the wounds, knowing his chip wouldn't zap him. He wanted to talk to Xander...keep him awake with rage to bear witness to his end. He wanted to torture him, in the only way open to him, of course.   
"Look what we have here...," he would speak slowly, seductively, getting right down to Xander's ear, just like Angelus had done... "You told me not to forget, you're moist and delicious...and like a good dog I did everything I was told." Then he would torment him, lapping up the blood, making cracks intermediately about how great the sex with Buffy was and how good his little demon girl had been, until the boy's last breath. Then he would rip his throat out and guzzle the rest of the blood down before it got too cold. Drink every last drop. Savor it. But at the same time...  
  
There was something else, coming from deep inside of himself, like a disease, an intruder from within. He felt the sensation growing there, in his chest, deep inside his stomach, the flesh of his legs -- making them wobbly. Panic.   
  
Rising panic as he watched the dying boy struggle to hold on to a life that was quickly seeping away in two lovely crimson streams... It sickened him, both the panic and the sight of Xander's body lying on the damp earth.   
  
'*Why do I feel like this*!?'   
  
There was also fear. There was regret. And... He felt almost like... He felt as if Xander was...a friend.   
  
'He's not your bloody friend, you pathetic - sodding - wanker!,' he thought, incredulous that even *he* could feel something so outrageous.   
  
Then in turn, he heard an answering voice to the thoughts of his mind -- only it was different than the thoughts he'd just had, more real. As if someone were right next to him, actually speaking into his ear.   
"He's your brother...," this voice was his, yet not. It was not the voice that narrated his brain's activities, in the form of his thoughts. It was not the one he was accustomed to. It was softer, calmer...off. And he hated it immediately. He spun around, preternatural eyes piercing into the night, trying to determine where exactly the sound had come from.  
  
"Who's there?!," he demanded in a roar. He kept turning, trying to spot anyone, anything to indicate where the voice had come from. 'It's not...Not *him*... I'm not going insane... It can't be... It's not... It can't be me...'  
  
"Whoever you are! I'll find you! I hope you're getting a good bloody laugh out of this...," he sensed nothing. No one. "Cause messing with my fucking mind's gonna get you killed!' He slurred the words, drenched in fury, feeling suddenly like a trapped animal. He turned to see Xander's chest heaving irregular gulps of air.   
  
"He's your brother...can't you feel it, my William?" He sucked in a violent, deep breath at this, turning again. Tears filling his eyes at the sound of the new voice sounding inside his mind, this one more familiar.   
  
A female voice this time. Sweet, child-like.  
  
"Drusilla?" His eyes desperately combed the deeper shadows of the graves and the cemetery trees in darkness lit only by a waning moon and the insane stars.   
  
"You will not find me. I'm gone... Three is your lucky number."  
  
"What!? What is this!?," he demanded of her, looking to the stars this time, as she had done during her own mad ramblings.  
  
"No," she said, voice taking on a dark tone. "Not lucky. Not lucky. Cursed. Cursed like daddy... You left me. You left your family and took another one. Your third one ... Miss Edith wants to know,...was it worth it? ... Abandoning us. Was it worth betraying me?," her voice had that small, frail sound to it as she asked the question. The voice he'd known so well over the course of a century -- longer, in fact. The voice was...hurt, as well. He held his head. It suddenly hurt too. There was all that sound inside. It was like static, so loud, and her voice was the only thing that cut through. Somewhere within the chaos of it all, he wished that Joyce was there.   
  
"Your new family doesn't want you, though," Dru's voice becoming more agitated as she continued. "But you won't see it. I wanted you. I was your princess, you said so! And I wanted you! But you left. And for what? Miss Edith wants to know..."  
  
He cried out, screaming -- in pain and frustration, gripping his head all the while as if he might be able to tear into it. Stop all the static-whispering, stop the words Drusilla was speaking.  
  
"Your new family doesn't want you. They could *never* want you. They don't even see you!," she was relentless.  
  
"Why are you doing this?," he asked, resigned to the torment, as he had been so many times in the past, but just seeking the reason for it.   
  
He didn't know to whom he spoke. He didn't know if Drusilla was dead and haunting him or if she was using her powers. He'd never really understood her "powers," other than the fact that they were obviously rooted in insanity. But he'd never seen any evidence before, that her ... abilities, as they were, would allow her to speak to him through thin air. He didn't know if it were his Drusilla at all... 'Maybe it's just me... Maybe this is what happens when you go on too long and you're wrong like me.'  
  
"You were always wrong, my love... I'm sorry. I'm sorry." She sounded as if she were in tears. He looked helplessly up at the sky, scanning it right and left, looking for her beautiful face, trying to see within it and understand...like he had always done in those first days. Let the need to love and be loved conquer everything else inside and find...sense there. All the sense that could lie in his world, after that night... "It's my fault. I should've never taken you that night, to him, to us...I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, my sweet William. I didn't know then."  
  
Spike swallowed, feeling a thickness in his throat.  
  
He turned back to Xander, to see the desperate struggle between life and death progressing. A wave of utter fear gripped him.   
  
"I'm not his brother!" His screamed, as if to counteract the gut-wrenching feeling. 'I'd *never* be related to that git!,' his mind continued the rant silently. But his thoughts seemed to be battling with the voice of Drusilla, which he now was unable to hear, but he still *felt* the resonance of her words it within him.   
  
He picked Xander up effortlessly. The boy's body was cooler to the touch than normal -- too cool. The faces of Buffy, Dawn, Willow, Tara and Anya blurred through his mind. Each face was stained with tears.   
  
He began to run.  
  
Never had he known such sick desperation. What was happening to him? What was he doing?! Xander could lay there and bleed, no one would know he had anything to do with it! It was the perfect opportunity! Why was he throwing it away!?  
  
His mind ran back in time to the moment when he had first taken in the scene -- the vampires feeding of the whelp who looked already half way to death's door. He singled out something from his memory he had not been able to process before amidst the chaos. A stake. Lying on the ground next to Xander's nearly lifeless form, there had been a stake.   
  
'He was going to kill you, you worthless ponce! He was going to kill you and now you're saving his life!?'  
  
"Shut-up! Bloody stop!," he screamed to his own thoughts and the voices... He felt like he was screaming over those *so many* voices now -- yet the ones that sounded like Dru and William were all he could make out.  
  
"He's your brother." William's stuffy Victorian accent pervaded...  
  
"Stop it!"  
  
"You nearly died when you lost your first family...Poor William. He always loses. But then you had us. We were so happy. One big happy family...Then daddy left, then you left...just like daddy. Why does everyone leave me?," Drusilla pouted.  
  
"Stop," Spike pleaded now, nearly falling as he ran with the boy awkwardly positioned in his arms. Not able to move fast enough. Not nearly fast enough to get away from them.  
  
"We're family." Buffy's strong voice echoed through his mind now. In a flash he saw them all standing there, facing Tara's family, when they had come to take her away. Buffy, Dawn, Giles, Willow, Anya, Xander... and himself. He had stood there with them. For a moment he was blinded by the vision in his mind as he ran.   
  
"But I'm not their family!"  
  
'Then whose are you?," Drusilla disembodied voice asked innocently.  
  
  
Spike got to black DeSoto after what seemed like ages, tossing the boy in the passenger side.  
  
"*Whose - Are - You*?," Drusilla demanded.  
  
Xander's vitals were starting to slow down. He didn't even know how he could seek them out and hear them over the voices... He jumped in the car and floored it. Tires screeching. He hoped he could leave them behind.   
  
"You're my boy aren't you?," the bold Irish accent boomed in his head.   
  
"God...,"   
  
Laughter. Angelus' laughter. The sound that had once sent chills down his spine, back then...and now once again.  
  
'Why?' The desperate question from before echoed through the deafening chambers of his mind.  
  
"You call on 'God'?," Angelus' voice was incredulous, filled with humor. Spike hated that laughter. If only he could take his hands off the steering wheel and cover his ears...  
  
"Boy, didn't they teach you in church? ...," Spike could feel Angelus' cold breath moving up his neck, then right behind his ear. The voice was so clear. "God doesn't answer the prayers of a devil."   
  
Spike's head jerked around, sure beyond all reality, all sanity, that Angelus himself was in the DeSoto's back-seat, a sadistic grin plastered on his face. The car swerved to the left as Spike's eyes surveyed the darkness of the empty back-seat, causing Xander to fall against him. Dead weight...the boy was barely alive...   
  
And there was nothing..., no one else in the entire car. Just him and the boy. He faced forward again, pushing the car to it's limits, barely making it around the turns.  
  
Then there was the voice of a little girl cut in over the screeching of the tires. He could see a flash inside his mind's eye -- the chubby, little fingers on the piano keys.  
  
"No...Please," he was begging now.  
  
"William! ... William, come play with me!" She called to him. Her voice sounded like a song.  
  
'Hospital...' He was there. Thank God, he was there. He jumped out of the car. Exceedingly grateful that Sunnyhell wasn't that large and the hospital was easy to get to from the cemetery -- with good reason.   
He hauled Xander out of the passenger side, medical personnel were running up to help.  
  
"What happened to him?," one asked, taking in the wounds on his neck and wrist then taking him from Spike. Another was bringing out a gurney.  
  
"What do you think bloody happened!?," Spike snapped. Jerking away impulsively, defensively from the people that seemed to surround him in an instant. "Stupid wanker!" He ground out the words, giving the young looking boy with the mop of disheveled light brown hair a look that would've made anyone's blood run cold. 'Blood...' He smelled blood on himself. Xander's blood. It made him feel faint. The boy he had addressed was now staring at him in shock as the others loaded Xander onto the gurney. The whelp looked dead, but Spike sensed he wasn't quite. Not yet anyway. He felt out of his head, so he wasn't sure...but it seemed as if everyone was just standing there, staring at him like some sodding sideshow freak.  
  
"Just...," he closed his eyes tightly, struggling, it was hard to form words, hard to think coherently. Everything seemed so loud. "Just get him in there and save him! That's what you people do, right!?" Spike demon fought to emerge through his anger, his eyes flashing yellow for a moment, before he gained control over himself again. As Xander was wheeled rapidly away into the ER's double doors, the young horrified medic ran after. Spike sighed.   
  
In a split second the tension returned to his body, tenfold, as another voice echoed inside his head.  
  
"Where's mummy?" A little boy's voice. William's. Again.  
  
"No," he moaned, taking hold of his head again and sinking slowly to the ground.  
  
"Sir, is something wrong?" Another medic ran up, eyeing him with uncertainty.  
  
Then the next voice came. He already had known it would come.   
  
"She's in there!," an angry man yelled. Obviously drunk. "She nearly died because of you, you stupid --"  
  
"Mummy?!," the boy cried out, running to the door and trying to pull it open, desperately. "Mummy!" The boy screamed as the man took hold of him, pulling him back away by his hair.  
  
"You stay away from there! You hear me, boy!?," with one hand he pushed the boy back, but even that was enough to send the slight sickly child back against the wall, hard. "She just lost the baby. Last thing the doctor needs is *you* underfoot!"  
  
"Wh- *Why*? What d-did I do wrong?" The boy was crying, in silence. He knew very well what would come if he made a sound. The tears streamed, his lips trembled.  
  
"You cause her so much stress with all your prattle, ridiculous, good for nothing! ... *You* should be the one that's dead. Not my son!"  
  
"Stop!," Spike cried, wondering in desperation how to make the voices incessant hammering cease.  
  
"He's hysterical...," the medic standing next to him said slowly and quietly, taking a few steps back.  
  
"Jesus, what's he on?," another asked warily.  
  
A young nurse came up next to Spike. Apparently, the only one of the surrounding group brave enough to approach. She tried to take his hand as a signal of reassurance, but he jerked it away as if he'd been burned. In the brief moment of contact the nurse noted it's lack of heat.  
  
"Sir? Sir, I think you're in shock," she tried gently.  
  
There's was a shattering in Spike's head now. Glass shattering. His hands flew over his ears at the sound. The man's voice was not to be shut out however.  
  
"What's wrong with you!?," the drunk man bellowed.  
  
"Help me get him up!," the young nurse instructed. After a moment's hesitation two men came at Spike from each side. Grabbing his arms to lift him.   
  
"No!," he stood suddenly, throwing them off. Then he stopped, listening hard...through the static sound, he heard Dru again, whispering...  
  
"They're fighting in you? Can you feel it? They're fighting, fighting, fighting... Does it hurt? Do they break the skin?"  
  
"They-...They who?," he asked, confused. Looking around, still seeking out the face that had once answered all his questions. He could love her. She would let him. All of this would go away...  
  
"They what sir?," a medic asked. The others were staring at him with varying mixtures of genuine concern, fear and morbid fascination.  
  
Suddenly he found he couldn't see any of the faces of the medics that surrounded him. Instead, he was blinded by the face of his second slayer, on the New York subway. He saw his own hands on her head and her eyes staring up at him. He saw those same hands brake her neck.   
  
"The darkness and the light, the darkness and the light, the darkness is dancing with the light...," Dru was singing.  
  
Then he wasn't on the subway anymore. He was beneath the tower. The was holding Buffy's head in his hands -- her dead eyes staring off with no expression. Her neck was broken.  
  
"No...God, please no...," a sob escaped him. He put his hand helplessly over his eyes trying to block it out.  
  
"Sir, please, let us help you," the nurse implored, obviously moved by the pain she saw inside the man in front of her.  
  
Then Spike heard his own voice in his head. Not William, but Spike...   
  
"You came back *wrong*!" The exact words he had spoken to Buffy the night they had... Then his voice came again. "You were always wrong!"  
  
Was there no escape from this? Spike made it back to the door of his car that was still open before falling to his knees again. Then, through the confusion and the static he gripped the small thread of hope. He remembered. The 'vanilla suicide'... It was in his duster pocket. He reached in and fingered the small bottle. 'Not how I wanted it, but...' He started to pull it out. A few from the medical staff were making their way to him again.   
  
Then, silence.  
  
The voices, the static, stopped. Dead. As if they never were.  
  
  
  
  
  
TBC... 


	6. Bloody Anne Rice Novels

Title: Vanilla Suicide  
  
Author: Juliet DeMarcus  
  
Rating: R  
  
Spoilers: Buffy up to and including "Entropy." Angel up to and including "Double or Nothing."  
  
Summary: Will the events of "Entropy" lead to a tragedy of near-Shakespearean proportions?   
  
Disclaimer: "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" and "Angel" are not mine. (But I can dream, right?) I'm not making any money, so don't sue me.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
I know I've always complained about the bloody Anne Rice novels.   
  
  
  
But if I'm honest (and why not at this point), I've always had a kind of secret affinity for them. After all, as ludicrous as they are, they do hold a sort of universal truth value.   
  
  
  
I have read every book in the vampire chronicles. I read a lot so it's not saying that much. I read some great stuff, classics and the like, and I read some real trash as well. That's the buggered up messy mix of a man-monster I am, thanks that sappy sod, William. I'm sure it's his idiocy that has me reading Anne Rice. I'm absolutely one hundred percent bloody positive of it!  
  
  
  
I guess part of it can be blamed on Drusilla as well. Dru adored the stories of Anne Rice. She would often have me read them to her during the days when she couldn't sleep. She was endlessly fascinated by the characters and seemed convinced that they were, in fact, real vampires, that existed, despite the fact that they're existence, the rules by which they lived were often opposed to our own.   
  
  
  
Sometime before she left me for the fungus boy, back when we were still happy, she even had me take her to New Orleans to get a look at the author's hometown. Gotta say I enjoyed that. Bloody lovely place, New Orleans. Just as it was described in her writings.  
  
  
  
We broke into St. Elizabeth's Orphanage on Napoleon Avenue, where Anne Rice keeps her personal doll collection. It's quite impressive -- massive collection of dolls, open to the public as a museum during the day. I might tell you, it's a bit creepy, even for a master vampire, but for Drusilla... She was in heaven there, my Dru. It was like the place was built for her. She brought Miss Edith, and introduced her to all the other lil dollies... We were there a while. I even held conversations with the dolls that had been fashioned into the likeness of Lestat and Louis. Argued with them over my Dru... She would laugh at that, so delighted in every way.   
  
  
  
I was surprised she didn't ask to take any of the dolls with her. But then, as our time there went on, she became a lot more quiet, listening, apparently to what all these dolls were saying to her. She became pensive -- still sweet, childlike Dru...but, calmer. I'd almost say at peace. Because in truth, at her core I think Dru had no more peace than I did.   
  
  
  
I remember as we were on our way out she stopped and turned to me. The look on her face, it was...I'll never forget. Looking at her then, I almost felt I knew what she was like when she was human. So sweet, so pure, so innocent. "Thank you," she had said simply. But her tone was different. In retrospect, it seemed almost...sane. I was taken aback enough but then she continued. "I know it's hard,... for you to take care of me. I'm...off. He hurt me, and...you take care of me. You're so good to me...," she had tears glistening in her eyes and my heart ached incredibly looking at her like that. I could never stand to see her cry. "I wish I could stay like this," I was thoroughly confused by her words of course. But nothing had prepared me for the question she asked me next.   
  
  
  
She looked up, then looked back to me and said... "I'm insane aren't I? I'm evil...and I wanted to be good," her voice nearly broke and there was such sadness. Drusilla had never so much as spoken the word 'insane.' It was a concept she did not understand, for obvious reasons. But it was as if for a few moments she had been transported, taken back to some of the most basic elements of herself and I think...maybe deep down some self-recognition that was rare, if not entirely unheard of for her manifested. Though, my life, or unlife as you will, may have been easier had she remained in that state, I did not mind so much when it was over. I found it to be the most terrifying moment I had ever experienced in my time her.  
  
  
  
  
The next night things were back to normal and we found ourselves standing outside the Rice residence, looking in on the creator of those vampire worlds. Ironic, isn't it? Lots of irony in my life... Because of where I am I think I'm just starting to see it.   
  
  
  
Dru wanted to break into the house and meet the woman. Ask her sodding questions about her stories then kill her...told me with no small amount of enthusiasm that the blood would taste like Lestat *and* Louis. She was really drawn to both of them, almost to the point as to stir my jealousy at times. Fictional characters or not.   
  
  
  
She always claimed I reminded her of Louis. No -- I tried to tell her. I was not Louis, if anything *I* was Lestat. That wanker Louis, reminded me of our ensouled sire. Definitely, if anyone could fill that git's brooding boots it was Peaches! I never understood why *she* didn't seem to see that correlation. Maybe it was because she never wanted to see Angel, just Angelus and that's how she always thought of him, as Angelus, as her daddy... But God, now I look at it again through the special kind of eyes you seem to grow once you know the end is coming, and I have to admit... we're both a bit like a mix of the two, if anything. And seeing it in that light I realized Angelus and his war with the soul of Angel is something similar to my never-ending war with William. Although technically different, it makes roughly half of us Lestat and half of us Louis...   
  
  
  
Still, *I'm* more Lestat than he is!   
  
  
  
"I want to drink them!," she had cried in delight, spinning around and around in the New Orleans streets like a madwoman in the full moon's light. I had to smile at my Dru. My magnificently mad princess. "I want to drink them all! Then they'll be inside me always and I will have new friends to talk with!" She giggled like a little girl and grabbed onto my arm, as she stopped spinning, almost pulling us both to the ground. I remember laughing with her as we swayed there. I don't know how I found the words to dissuade her that night. Usually I could never deny her anything, especially when she was like that.  
  
  
  
"Should be delicious," I remember the dry sarcasm of the words that could not disguise my amusement at being in such a laughable situation and happiness at seeing my beautiful Drusilla smiling and so radiant.   
  
  
  
Looking at the house with some sense of disbelief, I felt...far from myself, as well. Slightly embarrassed, and even more reluctantly I say, just a little in awe. A vampire in awe of a human, who writes fictitious vampire novels. This is a level that only Dru and I could stoop to. I'm far gone enough now to admit it. Must be something to do with the Poof, since we came from his line...maybe we have something in the way of a vampiric birth defect.   
  
  
  
I persuaded her to wait. Let us come back in another twenty years or so... Or whenever she stopped writing the books, I'd explained. That way she'd have more stories I could read to her as well.   
  
  
  
Since she wanted them in her head, I didn't think she'd buy it and then she had proceeded to study me so closely in the light of the full moon that I felt naked. Stripped bare. But not in the good way, that there always was with her. In a bad way. Like she was seeing through me, into something at the core, something deeply embedded that made her feel...sad, disappointed in me. That's why I hid it. I'd hidden it for so long I didn't even know what it was anymore, but looking into her eyes I saw what it drew out of her. Sadness. Displeasure. Disappointment. Most of all, I sensed the sadness...  
  
  
  
Even to this day, I'm not sure why I turned Dru down that night. I mean, granted, Anne Rice is more high profile than your average Joe on the street, but not so high that Dru and I couldn't have taken her down with no trouble.  
  
  
  
But I couldn't help wishing as I stared at the dark house before us. Couldn't help but long for it to all be true. Because if the realities of the vampires Anne Rice had written into being were true, then *my* reality, would therefore be false. And if I were still a vampire, I would at least be ... not as I was... I would be changed. It would all be different. A break in this...endlessness... It would change everything that had happened. Everything that we were. I mean, surely the reason humans die is because they would run mad if they had to live in one form, as one type of creature on this earth as long as we do.   
  
  
  
Sure, the realities of her vampires were filled with pain and endlessness as well. But it was *different* from our reality of it. And though there was just as much pain in that fictional reality, it seemed less so because it was not my own.  
  
  
  
I find myself reading those novels again now. Going through them one last time, wishing in vain once again that they were the truth and we were the myth. We, as in vampires, as we truly are.  
  
  
  
Because now, if they were true, then I could go take part in the practice of burying myself...resting underground until I had the strength to rise again. Ridiculous notion. But it sounds so...tempting. I long to rest. To cease this pain and sodding uselessness for a decade, a century maybe. I could bury myself in her grave. The place where the scoobies had put her last summer...under the willow tree out in the woods of Sunnydale. Though if my body rested there...I would probably never rise, but instead would lie there until the end of time. Being dead in Buffy's former grave would be better than being alive in the world once she's gone. And she already is gone...in a lot of ways. Gone from feeling. Gone from freedom. Gone from me.  
  
  
  
TBC… 


	7. One More Day in Paradise

Title: Vanilla Suicide  
Author: Juliet DeMarcus  
Rating: R  
Spoilers: Buffy up to and including "Entropy." Angel up to and including "Double or Nothing."  
Summary: Will the events of "Entropy" lead to a tragedy of near-Shakespearean proportions?   
Disclaimer: "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" and "Angel" are not mine. (But I can dream, right?) I'm not making any money, so don't sue me.  
A/N: Finally, a new chapter. Hey I'm back in the game! Sorry for the long absence…I really do have excuses (which I won't list here), but thanks to all those who have stuck with me on this one.   
The chapter is kind of a song chapter. The song is "Paradise" by Vanessa Carlton. Song lyrics are presented as: ~"song lyric"~   
All that being said, enjoy! And please review. Pretty please?  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Thursday Night  
  
  
  
Buffy found herself outside of the Bronze. She didn't know why she had come…probably for a little distraction. She needed distraction… Yes, distraction was definitely of the good.  
  
Problem was, she really didn't want to be there. She wanted to be at home asleep, or out killing something. Somewhere that she couldn't think, and didn't have time to mope…no not mope… 'Why would I mope over *Spike*?' …to fume over what Spike had done…to Xander.   
  
It wasn't that mattered to her. She'd told him to move on, after all. But he'd hurt Xander in the process. He'd possibly signed and sealed the end of Xander and Anya's relationship forever -- if it had not already been beyond repair.   
  
She felt a flash of heat run through her at the memory of what she'd said to him in the ally the night he and Anya had been discovered -- "Didn't take long, did it?"  
  
She was angry. Furious. She wasn't thinking. He probably thought that it meant something, meant that she was…jealous. That was laughable. He was an evil, bloodsucking vampire. Without a soul. She didn't love him. She used him.  
  
'So why do you have to keep telling yourself that?'  
  
"Shut-up, no more thoughts about the evil bloodsucking fend," she spoke aloud to her own thoughts as she walked toward the entrance of the Bronze. She'd heard from Willow and Tara that Vanessa Carlton was going to be there tonight.   
  
Maybe the music would distract her.   
  
As she went inside she saw that the performer had indeed drawn a large crowd. The bar and all the tables were full. And there were a lot of people just standing around and listening.   
  
The place was more packed than she had seen it for awhile. She scanned the tight gathering for Willow and Tara, knowing they must've been around considering they had both been so excited about going out, for their first semi-official date since having broken up.  
  
Buffy smiled at the thought. 'At least somebody's happy and in love.' She sighed. 'No feeling sorry for yourself either,' she scolded. Willow and Tara really did deserve their happiness and it was great that they had begun to patch things up and repair the damage that had been done by Willow's overuse of the magicks. But… 'Why can't everyone be that happy…Why not Xander and Anya, why not me and Sp-…Whoa…not me and Spike…me and … someone. … Will I ever have someone?'  
  
She hated thinking this way. It was really pathetic she knew. She had promised herself that she could do fine on her own…and she *had* been doing pretty well. Then she had to die and be brought back and find the only person she could talk to was a dead sexy vampire who was strangely enough, always around when she needed him.  
'Damn it! No more thinking about *him*!'  
  
She gave up her search for Willow and Tara. The crowd was too heavy and besides, they probably wanted to be alone anyway. She successfully swept away the accompanying wave of self-pity that came along with that thought and listened intently to the song.  
  
It was the only song of Vanessa Carlton's she really knew. The one that played on the radio a lot…with all that piano action going on. Willow loved her music and she had bought the cd, but Buffy hadn't had much time or mental energy to devote to the music listening for a while now.   
  
The song was really pretty, though. Kind of made Buffy wish that she could play the piano…or something, seemed like a good way to release things, express things. All Buffy did to release and express was kill vamps… 'and have sex with Spike,' her mind helpfully amended. She sighed. She couldn't see a thing from where she was standing.  
  
She decided to make her way up to the loft, so she might get a place where she could see more of what was going on and maybe catch a glimpse of her friends somewhere too. As she made her way up the stairs she heard the song finishing up and the next one beginning.  
The piano was really impressive sounding. She wished she'd gotten there earlier.   
  
She settled into a spot by the railing, just abandoned by a couple that looked as if they were about to go and get some serious smooching action going on.   
  
She sighed again. She was sick of sighing. When had she started doing that so much? She was going to hyperventilate if she didn't stop soon.   
  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
  
Xander blinked a couple times in the surprising brightness of his surroundings, trying to take everything in. Sterile, white, that subtle smell… the hospital. 'Hey, wait a minute…Why am I in the hospital?'   
  
He began turning his head to see if there was anyone else in the room with him and he felt the soreness in his neck. His had flew up to touch -- it was covered in a dressing. '*Vampires*… I was attacked by vampires…' He inspected his wrist which was also wrapped in a sterile dressing. The memories were all flooding back to him…  
  
Spike at Joyce's grave, the rage -- then the vamps, fighting against them, feeling himself being drained. Things starting to get dark…and then…Spike, saying his name, staring at him, looking horrified. Then nothing.  
  
"Oh, you're awake," a chipper woman's voice startled him out of his thoughts and he turned his head quickly to see her, only to wince in pain from the wound on his neck. The nurse was probably in her thirties with strawberry blonde hair and a friendly green eyes. "You lost quite a lot of blood there. How are you feeling?"  
  
"Um,…weird actually. I can't remember how I got here."  
  
"Do you remember what happened to you?," the nurse asked curiously, eyeing his injured wrist.  
  
Xander averted his eyes. What do you say? 'Oh I was just stalking a vampire in the cemetery and happened to get caught by a couple other vampires in the process who tried to drain me before…'   
  
"I don't remember. … Do you know how I got here?"  
  
"Oh yes. A friend brought you in."  
  
Xander's face told of his confusion. The nurse saw this and continued, sounding sympathetic. "He was really upset too. I wasn't there but they tell me he was a wreck. Talking to himself and yelling at the medics to save you and falling on the ground and crying."  
  
Xander felt a massive relief flood his system. So, it wasn't Spike that had saved his life. 'It must've just been some guy walking around in the cemetery who found me and got spooked, and…'  
  
"Who was he?"  
  
"Oh um, we didn't get a name. He didn't stay. Got right back into his car and sped away after the outburst, they said. Made quite the impression before he left though."  
  
Xander watched the nurse thoughtfully for a moment as she took some pills off a cart and began to pour some water from a pitcher into a little paper cup.  
  
"What did he look like? Do you know?"  
  
"Here, take these, and drink up all that water," she said handing him the pills and the cup. When he took it she continued. "They said he was kind of rough looking…bleached hair…scar on his face somewhere…I forget where they said. All in black, with a long leather coat… Oh, and they said he was British. Does that help?"  
  
But Xander didn't respond to her question. Concerned, she tilted her head and studied his face -- which was now totally stricken.  
  
"No…," he finally spoke, almost so quietly that she couldn't understand his words. "It really doesn't."  
  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
  
Anya sat alone in the Magic Box, going through the inventory lists and trying to forget the nightmare that was now her life. Trying to block out the words that had been echoing through her mind since two days ago.  
  
'I look at you…and I feel sick.'  
  
She sniffed, leaning back in her chair from the table. The same table where she and Spike had…while Xander had watched them.   
  
It wasn't like it was her fault! It was his! How dare he make her feel bad about something she had every right to do! She wasn't his anymore…he'd left her, on their wedding day, in front of all their friends and his horrible family! All of this had happened because of *him*! If he hadn't left her, none of this would have happened.   
  
She shook her head. It was useless… All of it was. Trying to make it better in her mind. Trying to blame him… It *was* his fault, but that didn't help alleviate the guilt that was pulling her down deeper into the quicksand with each passing moment.  
  
She couldn't take this. She couldn't be human without Xander…she wasn't even that good at being human *with* Xander. But now, she was finding it hard to be a vengeance demon as well. He'd ruined her. She wasn't good for anything now…  
  
  
She had noticed earlier they were out of tarnok root on the shelves so she made her way down to the basement now to see if they had any in stock. According to her paperwork they did. But as of late, she hadn't been the best at keeping accurate paperwork. 'Great!,' she thought in frustration. 'Now he's even affecting my ability to make money!'  
  
She found herself stopping at the spot where she and Xander had had sex that night when she thought the world was going to end. The night Xander had asked her to marry him. It seemed so long ago…strange to think it was actually less than a year.   
  
For the first time she almost felt regret that the world *hadn't* ended that night. At least they would've been happy if it had...up to that point anyway. They would've never gotten the chance to see how messed up it would all become. How he would rip her heart out by leaving her at the alter and how she would make him forever sick at the thought of her by screwing the vampire he hated.  
  
She looked at where they had lay together that night… She remembered how it felt to be held by his large upper arms, that even Halfrek had commented on… It had felt so good. So good. She was safe there. Loved. Happy. He'd told her he believed that he would live a long and silly life, and he wasn't interested in doing that without her around. He had wanted her…  
  
A long and silly life with him had sounded so right. Perfect.  
  
It would have been better if the world had ended.  
  
Much better than this.  
  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
  
Buffy leaned on the railing and watched as Vanessa Carlton began moving her fingers once again over the piano's keys. A slow, somber sounding song this time. The notes connected with Buffy and as they did, she saw the singer look up at the loft, seemingly right at her. Her dark eyes stayed locked on that of the Slayer's for a moment as if she were trying to relay a message…as if she were saying with her eyes…this is your song.  
  
It seemed right, albeit a little odd. Buffy looked around a moment to see if there was anyone else she could've been looking at. Maybe she knew someone here. But there seemed to be no one. When she looked back she found the dark haired girl looking at her again…imploring. Buffy tilted her head in question. Vanessa shook her head yes, and gave a small, sad smile, almost imperceptible at that distance, then looked back down as she played the slow, sad notes on the piano and began to sing.  
  
Buffy let go of her curiosity and found her mind suddenly flooded. The music made her want to cry,… and the words, they hit her like a bolt of electricity. Of truth. Bringing forth something she had not thought of in so long and yet seemed so familiar as to indicate that she'd thought of it every day since...  
  
~"once upon a year gone by  
she saw herself give in"~  
  
She saw Angel…and herself. That night after escaping from Drusilla's birthday party…the night that changed everything. Changed him. Changed her.  
  
She saw herself in tears, so close to him. God, how it had felt to be so close to him…  
"Angel,…I feel like I lost you… You're right though, we can't be sure of anything."  
"Shh…," he hushed her. "I…"  
"You what?," she asked turning to him. Looking deep in those eyes that held so much.  
So much lost…  
"I love you. I try not to, but I can't stop," he spoke tearfully, voice full of all the emotions that reflected her own.  
"Me - me too. I can't either."  
  
~"every time she closed her eyes  
she saw what could have been"~  
  
Those thoughts…they were always there, even when she refused to acknowledge -- questioning her life, questioning her fate. What if she hadn't gave in?   
  
Angel would've never turned evil… They may have found out before it was too late… Jenny would be alive. Maybe she could've helped them… Helped them be together. Visions of Angel smiling, wearing a tuxedo and her in a long flowing bridal gown filled her mind next. These were the thoughts she had always pushed away…pushed deep into the recesses of her mind. Silly fantasies of a love and life that could never have been… They made her feel stupid. Ashamed. Most of all, they made her feel pain.  
  
"Buffy, maybe we shouldn't…," he'd said.  
"Don't. Just kiss me."  
  
~"well nothing hurts and nothing bleeds  
when covers tucked in tight"~  
  
Buffy's eyes filled with tears. The pain had been so much…   
She didn't want to feel that pain…ever again.  
  
"You know what the worst part was, huh?," Angelus' cruel voice sounded in her mind … "Pretending that I loved you. If I'd known how easily you'd give it up, I wouldn't have even bothered."   
"That doesn't work anymore. You're not Angel."  
"You'd like to think that, wouldn't you? It doesn't matter. The important thing is you made me the man I am today!"  
  
  
~"funny when the bottom drops  
how she forgets to fight...to fight"~  
  
"You can't do it. You can't kill me."   
  
And he had been right. She couldn't kill him. And look at the price everyone had paid. Giles had lost the woman he loved… Kendra died… Willow almost lost her life…  
  
~"and it's one more day in paradise  
one more day in paradise"~  
  
…Because of her weakness. She couldn't let it happen again. Couldn't allow it to take control of her.   
  
Her weakness, that would lead to everyone else's loss. Again. She was the Slayer, she had no luxury to…  
  
~"as the darkness quickly steals the light  
that shined within her eyes"~  
  
She'd loved him so much… He'd loved her. She'd sacrificed,… they all had -- against their will. And still, in the end, it was all for nothing. Nothing.  
  
~"she slowly swallows all her fear  
and soothes her mind with lies  
well all she wants and all she needs  
are reasons to survive  
a day in which the sun will take  
her artificial light...her light"~  
  
If only the others had left her where she was, when she had died. She was finally safe. She was finally away from the pain, the struggle, these conflicting feelings… It was her closure. It was the only resolution she could ever have. The only happiness…only peace. She didn't want to do this again. Because, what if she was? What if it was going to happen again? … She couldn't… Not again, not love and have something else… someone else be stripped away. It was too much… Even more than before…  
  
The tears made their way down her face…  
Like the raindrops on the window the night she and Angel had made love.  
"I love you. I try not to, but I can't stop…"  
  
~"and it's one more day in paradise  
one more day in paradise  
it's one more day in paradise"~  
  
  
'But what if I let it slip away?…' The haunted, silent question echoed within the strains of the song…   
  
~"one last chance to feel alright...alright"~  
  
She heard Tara's calm voice come from somewhere within her mind. 'Do you love him? It's okay, if you do…'  
  
"Oh God, I can't…," Buffy whispered tearfully, turning away from the stage. A guy standing nearby noticed her anguish and took a took a few steps toward her.   
  
"Are you okay?," he asked in concern. Buffy nearly jumped, startled.   
  
"Um, yes…," she pushed passed him and began to take the stairs as quickly as she could in the crowd. She had to get out of there. She had to leave these thoughts. These were no good thoughts. Bad, bad thoughts.  
  
~"don't pretend to … hold it in just let it out"~  
  
The piano sounded like the rain on the windows, now. Another tear broke free and made it's way down her mascara streaked face and she wiped at it furiously as she neared the exit.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
  
Xander watched the nurse leave. He stared blankly at the door -- Lost. How had everything gone so wrong.? He'd left Anya… And for what? Because of his father!? Because he'd been a coward… Anya cheated on him with…Spike! Then to top it all off he'd been too much of a coward to actually get rid of the soulless bloodsucker and in return Spike had *saved him*!   
  
"I hate this!," he screamed to no one in particular. Trying to reconcile in his mind the image of the Spike trying to kill them all, and the Spike having sex with Anya on the Magic Box table, and the Spike as the nurse had described him, saving his life. 'How could she do that? How could he do that?…How could I have done that?…God…' He didn't want this. He didn't want this to be his life… And why did Spike have to save him anyway!?  
  
~"don't pretend to hold it in just push it out  
don't you try to hold it in just let out and"~  
  
Looking at his bandaged wrist, fury, guilt and pain got the best of him and he found himself giving into the sobs of frustration he'd been confining within himself for … he wasn't sure how long.  
  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
  
~"don't you try to hold it in you hold it in…"~  
  
Anya threw a bottle against the wall of the basement with as much strength as she could manage. Crying out. Needing the sound of the shattering. She fell to the floor then -- hard, thoughts of Xander and his face the night of her betrayal, unyielding in her mind. Feeling some of the glass shards cut into the flesh of her knees, grateful for the pain it caused.  
  
~"one more day in paradise  
one more day in paradise  
it's one more day in paradise  
one last chance to feel alright...alright"~  
  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
  
Buffy stumbled in the ally outside of the Bronze, tears blurring her vision. She leaned against a wall and covered her face in her hand. And sobbed…  
  
  
~"once upon a year gone by  
she saw herself give in  
every time she closed her eyes  
she saw what could have been"~ 


End file.
